MJcMRLF 


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AS  THE  LARKS  RISE 


AS  THE  LARKS  RISE 


BY 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON 

AUTHOR  OP  "the  JOT  o'  LIFE,"  "tHE  EARTH  CKT' 
AND  "the  dreamers'* 


^ 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YOKK  AND  LONDON 

^be    •Rnicfterbocfter    pre00 
192 1 


Copyright.  1921 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


^% 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


To 
MY  FATHER 


4SS751 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/aslarksriseOOgarrrich 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  the  poems 
included  in  this  volume  the  author  thanks 
the  Editors  of  Everybody's,  Harper's, 
Scrihner's,  The  Century,  Good  Housekeeping, 
The  Smart  Set,  The  Delineator,  McClure's, 
Woman's  Magazine,  Red  Cross  Magazine, 
Ainslee's,  Collier's  Weekly,  Poetry,  and  The 
Independent, 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

As  THE  Larks  Rise      ....         3 

The  Keepers  of  the  Light 

4 

The  Coward 

5 

The  Easter  Angel 

7 

November    . 

8 

The  Answer 

10 

Little  Convent  Songs 

11 

The  Kerry  Lads 

.       13 

The  Empty  Room 

14 

Mary,  the  Mother      . 

.       16 

Memorial  Day     . 

18 

The  Better  Part 

20 

Spinsters     . 

22 

The  Martyr 

24 

ix] 


CONTENTS 


The  Free  Woman 

I  HAVE  Grown  Tired  of  a 

Harlequin  Laughs 

An  Old  Poet 

Her  Heaven 

Success 

Pierrette    . 

A  Certain  Joy 

Cophetua's  Queen 

The  Hosts  of  Mary   . 

At  the  Road's  End 

Good-bye,  My  Youth  . 

One  Wife    . 

The  House  in  Trouble 

The  Healed  Ones 

Love  Speaks  to  Time 

Ruins  .... 

Boots  and  Shoes    . 

The  Shepherd  Who  Stayed 
[x] 


Tree 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Mood 58 

The  Windows 

59 

Signs    ..... 

61 

The  Father 

62 

A  Ballad  of  Easter   . 

63 

Gratitude 

.       65 

Love  Songs 

66 

St.  Cecilia's  Choir 

67 

The  House  in  Order  . 

.        70 

The  Conqueror  . 

72 

The  Rebuilders 

73 

The  Place  of  Dreams 

75 

Judgment     . 

77 

The  Stranger 

78 

Mors  Benigna     . 

79 

A  Voice  at  the  Door 

.       81 

The  Lyric    . 

83 

Giants 

86 

The  Master  of  the  House 

87 

[xi] 

CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Like  o'  Him 

•              91 

How  Many  Women 

.       93 

Blighty        ..... 

•       94 

The  Storm            .... 

.       96 

Gardens       ..... 

.       98 

Herself       ..... 

100 

The  Witch- Wife 

102 

Those  Who  Went  First 

105 

The  Soul  of  Jeanne  d'Arc 

107 

The  Jilted 

no 

The  Years 

III 

The  Sea  Bride     .... 

112 

The  Wishes          .... 

116 

A  Wedding  Song          .         .         .         . 

118 

Xll 


AS  THE  LARKS  RISE 


[1 


AS  THE  LARKS  RISE 

\T0  gypsy  born  of  the  old,  true  blood 
-^  '     Dies  between  walls  of  stone  or  wood; 
They  are  too  courteous  to  Death 
To  bid  him  come  for  that  last  breath 
Through  a  low  door  to  a  mean  space 
Unfitted  to  his  rank  and  grace. 

But  when  their  hour  is  come  to  die 
They  room  between  the  ground  and  sky; 
On  shore  or  meadow,  hill  or  heath 
They  wait  the  gracious  hand  of  Death; 
From  a  free  place  to  open  skies 
They  rise  with  him  as  the  larks  rise. 

God  grant  that  in  no  narrow  room 
Death  peers  at  me  through  curtained  gloom; 
But  somewhere  in  the  first,  fresh  dawn 
Green  be  the  hill  I  lie  upon, 
And  let  Death  come  to  me  as  one 
With  the  wind  and  the  dew  and  the  lifting  sun. 
[3] 


THE    KEEPERS    OF    THE    LIGHT 

WE  are  the  keepers  of  that  steadfast  light 
That   guides   a   people's   course  and 
destiny ; 
Not  ours  the  skill  directing  over  sea 
The  mighty  beams  that  blaze  the  path  aright ; 
Ours  but  the  hands  that,  serving,  keep  it 
bright, 
The  bringers  of  the  oil,  the  workers  we 
Who  day  long,  without  pause  and  faithfully, 
Toil  that  its  radiance  may  pierce  the  night. 

Above  us  are  the  wills  that  guide  and  turn; 

It  is  not  ours  to  watch  nor  question  these, — 

Ours  but  to  see  each  wick  is  trimmed  and  fit 

Lest  on  a  night  of  storms  it  fails  to  burn 

And  a  Great  Ship  goes  down  in  awful  seas. 

O,  Keepers  of  the  light,  keep  faith  with  it ! 


[4] 


THE  COWARD 

f  MUST  be  off  and  a  long  time  gone  before 
•^        the  Spring  comes  back; 

Before  the  last  snow  thaws  and  dries,  before 
the  first  bird  sings — 
Before  me  heart's  the  like  of  a  hare  with 
yelpin'  hounds  on  its  track, 
With  the  old  sounds  and  the  old  sights  and 
the  liftin'  of  new-fledged  wings. 

I  must  be  gone  and  a  long  way  off  before  the 
Spring  comes  on; 
Before  the  hedges  are  comin'  green  the  ways 
that  we  used  to  go. 
'Tis  bad  enough  on  a  winter's  night  for  a  lad 
to  sit  be  his  lone. 
But  I'm  dreadin'  the  time  when  Phelin's 
pipes  call  up  from  the  glen  below. 

I  must  be  off  and  a  long  time  gone,  and  there's 
no  one  to  bid  me  stay, 
And  she  and  the  man  of  her  choice  may 
laugh  at  seein'  a  fool  depart. 
[5] 


THE  COWARD 

I  must  be  off  and  a  long  way  off  before  Spring 
comes  this  way, 
Before  the  sight  of  a  child  of  hers  would 
tear  the  chords  of  me  heart. 


THE  EASTER  ANGEL 

TnWO  angels  were  in  Mary's  life; 
•■•      One  came  when  she  was  young, 
When  the  fields  of  Spring  were  blossoming 

And  the  birds  of  morning  sung. 
In  a  green  garden  between  folded  wings 
He  gave  her   heart  the  promise  that  was 
Spring's. 

Two  angels  were  in  Mary's  life; 

One  came  when  she  was  old. 
She  sought  her  son  on  an  Easter  dawn 

In  a  carven  tomb  and  cold, 
And  lo !  one  stood  before  her  there  who  said . 
* '  Rejoice,  rejoice !     He  lives  and  is  not  dead ! ' ' 

Two  angels  were  in  Mary's  life; 

The  second  loved  she  best. 
God  grant  this  day  he  comes  to  stay 

Each  heart  that,  grief-possessed, 
May  turn  to  sudden  rapture  at  the  voice 
That  cries:  "Thy  dead  have  never  died — 
Rejoice!" 

[7] 


NOVEMBER 

NTOVEMBER  is  a  spinster  who  never  had 
-^  ^        a  lover ! 

All  her  pretty  sisters  have  sweethearts  by 

the  score, 
Wilful  April,  singing  June  with  roses  wreathed 

above  her 
And  the  gypsy  girl  October  flaming  out  from 

brake  and  cover ; 
But  a  gaunt,  gray  spinster  is  November 

evermore. 

Brown  earth  beneath  her  feet,  dull  skies  above 
her, 
Not  a  flower  anywhere  nor  any  wings  to 
start, 
November  is  a  spinster  who  never  had  a 
lover — 
But  when  you  see  her  sunsets  you  look 
into  her  heart. 

[8] 


NOVEMBER 

I  have  loved  her  sisters,  I  have  praised  their 

graces, 
But  in  gaunt,  grim    November  I  find  a 

better  thing — 
A  grief  that  asks  no  comforting,  a  heart  that 

seeks  no  praises. 
I'd  rather  have  her  courage  than  all  their 

pretty  faces. 
Her   honest,    blunt   assurance,    than  the 

promises  of  Spring. 

Brown  earth  beneath  her  feet,  bare  boughs 
above  her. 
Walking  through  the  empty  fields,  silent 
and  apart, 
November  is  a  spinster  who  never  had  a 
lover — 
And  only  through  her  sunsets  you  look 
into  her  heart. 


9] 


THE  ANSWER 

A  LWAYS  laughin'  she  was — havin'  her  joke 
**"*"        and  singin' — 
Her  heart  the  Hke  of  a  fountain  where  joy 

was  dancin'  and  springin' ; 
And  ourselves  by  the  fire  would  say,  "She's 

stretchin'  her  hand  to  sorrow — 
God  save  the  child  from  the  trouble,  the 

trouble  that  comes  tomorrow ! " 

Always  happy  she  was — and  happy  it  was 

Death  found  her 
In  the  place  that  she  loved  the  best,  with  the 

arms  of  love  around  her. 
And  ours  is  the  answered  prayer  who  were 

askin'  against  her  sorrow. 
God  saved  the  child  from  the  trouble,  the 

trouble  that  comes  tomorrow ! 


10 


LITTLE  CONVENT  SONGS 


I  DO  not  understand  the  Saints — 
-■■    They  care  no  more  for  my  complaints 
Or  wistful  prayers  I  bring  to  them 
Than  our  stone  Mary  at  the  door 
Cares  for  the  birds  that  sing  and  soar 
And  light  about  her  garment's  hem. 

She  does  not  care, — but  yesterday 

I  placed  some  crumbs  there — carefully — 

Perhaps  some  time,  in  some  such  way. 
An  answered  prayer  may  come  to  me. 

II 

When  Father  Martin  talks  to  us 
We  sit  up  straight  with  careful  eyes, 

Like  soldiers  taking  orders  from 
A  Captain  very  stern  and  wise, 
fill 


LITTLE  CONVENT  SONGS 

But  oh,  when  Father  Clement  talks, 
It  seems  as  though  he  led  one  through 

An  open  door  to  Some  One  there 

Who  takes  your  hand  and  smiles  at  you. 


Ill 

When  Sister  Mary- Joseph  sings 

Something  besides  her  voice  sings,  too ; 

But  far  away  behind  closed  doors 
That  bar  and  will  not  let  it  through. 

She  sings  of  calm  and  holy  things — 
I  wish  I  could  not  hear  at  all 

That  other  voice  which  beats  its  wings 
And  sobs  and  cries  against  the  wall. 


[12] 


THE  KERRY  LADS 

ly  4Y  eyes  were  all  too  wary, 
^^^    My  heart  was  none  too  gay 
Until  the  lads  from  Kerry 

Came  tramping  through  this  way 
And  lodged  about  the  village 

And  helped  us  with  the  hay. 

The  lads  that  come  from  Kerry 
Are  not  like  lads  at  home ; 

They  show  you  where  the  fairie 
Dance  circles  on  the  loam 

And  tell  old  tales  and  sing  old  songs 
That  lift  your  heart  like  foam. 

The  lads  that  come  from  Kerry. 

They  never  stay  for  long ; 
But  oh,  their  mouths  are  merry ! 

And  oh,  their  arms  are  strong ! 
And  what's  a  careless  kiss  or  so 

To  one  remembered  song  ? 
[131 


THE  EMPTY  ROOM 

/^H,  little  room  that  knew  such  light  and 

^^    cheer 

V/hen  she  was  here; 

That  held  as  any  love-locked  garden  might, 

The  rose  that  was  her  presence  night  and 

night, 
What  are  you  now  but  four  poor  walls  that  press 
About  mere  emptiness — 
A  garden  devastated,  through  whose  door 
Joy  enters  in  no  more? 

Oh,  little  room  left  chill  and  desolate, 

I  wonder  if  you  wait 

Long  day  by  day  to  hear  again  the  sweet 

And  yearned-for  sound  of  her  returning  feet 

Upon  your  threshold, — waiting  for  that  one 

Whose  coming  brings  the  sun 

And  light  and  fragrance, — all  your  banished 

bloom. 
Oh,  little  lonely  room ! 

[14] 


THE  EMPTY  ROOM 

Oh,  little  lonely  room,  so  warm  and  dear 

When  she  was  here. 

You  that  her  love  made  beautiful!     I,  too, 

Must  share  this  want  with  you. 

Seeing  I  close  in  silence,  for  my  part, 

An  empty  heart 

Filled  one  day  with  the  very  joy  of  her. 

Oh,  little  room,  my  heart  is  lonelier! 


15] 


MARY,  THE  MOTHER 

WHAT  is  the  great  light  falHng  through 
the  door?" 
TheHghtof  a  white  star  shining  Hke  the  sun ! 
"I  will  hide  His  eyes,"  she  said,  ''covering 
them  o'er 
Lest  the  sight  should  harm  Him,  my  little, 
helpless  one!" 

"What  is  the  great  sound  ever  drawing  near?  " 
The  sound  of  singing  voices  in  a  vast  wind's 
sweep ! 
"  I  will  hold  Him  close,"  she  said,  "  so  He  may 
not  hear. 
So  these  may  not  wake  Him  in  His  first, 
sweet  sleep!" 

Her  bright  hair  covered  Him  between  her 
breast  and  arm; 
"So  my  care  shall  cover  Him  from  all 
unhappy  things, 
[16] 


MARY,  THE  MOTHER 

I  shall  be  His  shield,"  she  said,  ''between  the 
world  and  harm!" 
And    nearer,    ever    nearer,   drew    angels, 
shepherds,  kings. 

Low  laughed  Mary  among  the  drowsing  kine : 
'*  Mine  and  mine  alone  He  is,  by  all  my  love 
possessed!" 
And  even  as  against  His  cheek  she  whispered, 
"Mine,"  and  "Mine!  " 
Heaven  came  in,  the  world  came  in  and 
claimed  Him  at  her  breast. 


17 


MEMORIAL   DAY 

A  HANDFUL  of  old  men  walking  down 
'**'     the  village  street 

In    worn,    brushed    uniforms,    their    gray 
heads  high ; 
A  faded  flag  above  them,  one  drum  to  lift 
their  feet — 
Look  again,  0  heart  of  miney  and  see  what 
passes  by! 

There's  a  vast  crowd  swaying,  there's  a  wild 
band  playing. 
The  streets  are  full  of  marching  men,  of 
tramping  cavalry. 
Alive  and  young  and  straight  again,  they  ride 
to  greet  a  mate  again — 
The  gallant  souls,  the  great  souls  that  live 
eternally ! 

A  handful  of  old   men   walking  down  the 
highways? 

[181 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

Nay,  we  look  on  heroes  that  march  among 

their  peers, 
The  great,  glad  Companies  have  swung  from 

heaven's  byways 
And  come  to  join  their  own  again  across  the 

dusty  years. 

There  are  strong  hands  meeting,  there  are 
staunch  hearts  greeting — 
A  crying  of  remembered  names,  of  deeds 
that  shall  not  die. 
A  handful  of  old  men? — Nay,  my  heart,  look 
well  again ; 
The  spirit  of  America  today  is  marching  by! 


[10] 


THE   BETTER   PART 

rH,  but  the  days  when  I  was  young  and 
■"-^        Phelan's  Molly  would  none  of  me — 
And  little  blame  to  herself,  God  knows,  for 
I  was  the  moon-struck  calf, 
Blushin'  up  to  me  hair  I  was  times  she'd  be 
havin'  her  fun  of  me, 
And  me  heart  the  like  of  a  rushin'  wave  to 
be  breakin'  against  her  laugh ! 

Faith,  I  went  in  misery,  and  sorrow  walked 
beside  me. 
Yet  here's  the  truth  I'm  tellin'  you — I'd 
give  me  ease  today 
To  feel  the  heart-thrust  in  me  for  all  that  love 
denied  me. 
For  'tis  better  to  be  in  love  and  sad  than 
be  merry  when  pipers  play. 

Eh,  but  the  days  when  I  was  yOung  and  for 

all  I  laugh  at  the  thought  of  it, 

[201 


THE  BETTER  PART 

Of  the  times  I  went  like  a  crazy  thing  and 
the  nights  that  I  lay  awake! 
Little  I  guessed  I'd  know  today  the  wisdom 
that  last  I  bought  of  it — 

'Tis  unhappier  far  to  be  old  and  at  ease 
than  to  sorrow  for  loving's  sake. 

Glad  enough  am  I  today  that  Molly  would 
have  none  of  me, 
(And  she  three  years  the  older  one  the  time 
you  come  to  think.) 
But  here's  the  truth  I'm  owing  her  since  age 
has  had  the  run  of  me — 
*Tis  better  to  be  unhappy  in  love  than 
merry  with  fiddles  and  drink! 


21] 


SPINSTERS 


OHE  sang  of  Love  so  loud  and  long 
^    That  when  one  day  he  came  to  call 
She  was  so  busy  with  her  song 

She  did  not  hear  him  knock  at  all ; 
And  as  he  left,  unrecognized, 
He  looked  exceedingly  surprised. 

II 

Searching  for  Love,  the  distance  o'er 
She  scanned  the  high  and  starry  way, 

And  never  knew  that  by  her  door 
He  greeted  her,  say,  thrice  a  day, 

Because  he  wore,  ah !  hapless  one, 

The  aspect  of  her  neighbour's  son. 

Ill 

About  her  everywhere  she  saw 
Love's  double  breaking  love  and  law, 
[221 


SPINSTERS 

So  when  at  last,  Himself,  he  came 
She  gave  him  that  impostor's  name 
And  told  him  such  unpleasant  things 
He  went  away  with  drooping  wings. 

IV 

She  made  her  House  of  Life  so  trim, 
So  white  and  starched,  so  neatly  prim, 
She  would  not  let  Love  in  until 
He  scraped  his  boots  and  brushed  the  sill. 
Hence,  after  much  vain  argument 
Before  the  entry  door — he  went. 


23 


THE   MARTYR 

A    FLAME  above  his  cradle  hung — 
•**■    A  flame  no  earthly  torch  had  lit — 
And  even  as  his  cradle  swung 
His  eyes  would  follow  it. 

And  older,  as  he  bent  to  turn 

The  book  that  held  his  heart,  behold ! 

The  shadow  of  a  flame  would  bum 
Across  its  page  like  gold. 

And  men  reviled  him  in  those  days, 
When  from  old  creeds  and  tenets  grim 

He  turned  to  follow  through  strange  ways 
The  flame  that  beckoned  him ; 

That  flame  that  never  burned  above 
The  tall  cathedral  spire,  but  stood 

Above  that  outcast  flock  his  love 
Had  made  a  brotherhood. 
[24] 


THE  MARTYR 

And  when  before  his  judges  flung, 
Daring  their  council  to  be  meek, 

The  Hve  flame  fell  on  Hps  and  tongue 
And,  burning,  bade  him  speak. 

Hence,  one  day  glorious  with  grace. 

Men  led  him  with  bell,  book,  and  prayer 

Out  to  the  crowded  market-place 
Where  the  heaped  faggots  were. 

And  lol  he  saw  his  flame — his  flame, 
Spring  from  the  pile  men's  torches  lit. 

Exultant  to  its  light  he  came. 
And  gave  himself  to  it. 


[25] 


THE   FREE  WOMAN 

W70MEN  who  do  not  love  are  free; 
^^      All  day  their  thoughts  go  carelessly. 
I  know  they  do  not  fear  at  all 
When  the  nights  come  and  the  snows  fall. 

But  those  who  love — their  thoughts  must 

trace 
All  day  the  well-beloved  face, 
And  they  are  fearful  and  grow  chill 
At  the  snow's  fall  and  the  night's  ill. 

And  they  would  fire  their  hearts  to  burn 
Like  a  bright  light  at  the  road's  turn, 
And  flay  their  souls  to  keep  him  warm 
In  the  cold  night  and  the  white  storm. 

Surely  I  may  be  glad  that  I 
Softly  a  night  of  storms  may  lie, 
For  I  have  watched  a  woman's  face 
A  black  night  at  a  window's  space. 
[261 


THE  FREE  WOMAN 

Surely  I  should  be  happier, 

Nor  envy — envy — envy  her ; 

But  I  have  heard  the  word  she  spoke 

In  her  man's  arms  as  the  dawn  broke. 


27 


I  HAVE  GROWN  TIRED  OF  A  TREE 

f  HAVE  grown  tired  of  a  tree, 

*-    And  had  a  mountain  weary  me 

As  might  some  guest  who  stays  too  long 

After  the  feasting  and  the  song ; 

But  I  have  never  tired  at  all 

Of  the  city's  ceaseless  carnival, 

Or  mountains  made  of  brick  and  stone, 

Raised  by  the  hands  of  man  alone. 

I  have  been  weary  by  the  sea, 
But  never  where  humanity 
Surges  like  some  deep  tide  that  beats 
Day-long  against  the  city  streets; 
Better  than  gardens  Spring-endowed, 
The  hundred  faces  of  a  crowd. 
Each  with  its  history  that  lies 
Clear-writ  between  the  mouth  and  eyes. 

God  made  some  lives  for  silent  places. 
And  some  for  tumult  and  men's  faces. 
And  some  find  peace  in  flower  and  herb, 
And  some  on  a  crowded,  city  curb. 
[28] 


HARLEQUIN   LAUGHS 

IF  we  one  day  had  guessed  how  death 
•■'    Would  claim  at  last  our  Harlequin — 
He  to  whom  laughter  was  as  breath, 

He  of  the  lifted  brow  and  chin 
And  eyes  that  seemed  as  though  just  turned 
From  pages  where  a  love-song  burned. 

One  would  have  doubtless  said,  "  Some  night, 
Blown  on  the  Carnival's  high  gust, 

His  life  will  go  out  like  a  light 
Between  a  kiss  and  dagger- thrust, 

And  his  fantastic  ghost  will  rise 

With  a  black  mask  across  its  eyes." 

Or  one  might  say,  "Some  Springtime  dawn 

Will  find  him,  in  all  certainty, 
Full-flung  upon  a  dewy  lawn 

Beneath  a  rose-hung  balcony. 
Lips  curving  in  a  song  struck  mute, 
And  at  his  side  a  broken  lute." 
[291 


HARLEQUIN  LAUGHS 

Or  say,  "Upon  a  raft  at  sea, 

Careless  if  death  come  late  or  soon. 

So  he  but  end  the  rhapsody 

He  sings  to  the  complacent  moon, 

Saluting  with  his  finger-tips 

Till  the  last  ripple  strikes  his  lips." 

O  well-beloved  ghost,  what  chance 
Is  yours  to  make  the  answer  due? 

There  is  an  unnamed  grave  in  France 
That  in  its  silence  speaks  for  you — 

The  soldier's  grave  you  fought  and  died  to 
win.    .    .    . 

Laugh — but  laugh  gently  at  us,  Harlequin! 


30 


AN   OLD   POET 

I    ONG  since  his  song  was  broken  by  weight 
''— '    of  toil  and  tears, 

The  loveHness  unspoken  lost  in  the  mist  of 
years. 

Is  joy  his  part,  or  sadness,  when  now  against 

the  skies. 
Like  notes  from  a  choir  of  gladness,  the  new 

songs  soar  and  rise? 

Voices  of  youth,  with  dower  of  dawn  and  life 

and  mirth. 
With  that  exultant  power  that  lifts  the  song 

from  earth. 

Does  he,  grown  old  and  tired,  grieving,  recall 

that  one 
Morn  when  he  too  aspired  to  reach  the  very 

sun? 

[311 


AN  OLD  POET 

Or  does  he  hear,  rejoicing,  that  though  his 

lips  are  sealed, 
These  vibrant  hearts  are  voicing  his  vision 

unrevealed? 

God  grant  to  him  is  given  this  joy  what  time 

youth  sings, 
So  well  assured  of  heaven,  so  confident  of 

wings. 


S2] 


HER   HEAVEN 

1  SHALL  be  young  again — and  pretty  enough 
To  make  the  saints  smile  at  me  as  I  pass 
With  swift,  white  feet  across  the  heavenly 
grass. 

I  shall  be  gay  and  careless,  and  my  heart, 
Forever  like  some  hidden  bird,  shall  sing 
Of  some  approaching  and  most  lovely  thing. 

Surely,  a  thought  absurd,  unorthodox, 
To  enter  through  an  office  door,  or  come 
Grotesquely,  as  the  subway  crowds  rush  home. 

There  is  a  mirror  in  my  lodging-house 
Stained  here  and  there  with  lines  like  slanting 

rain. 
That  shows  a  woman  neat  and  tired  and  plain. 

But  in  that  mirror  that  no  other  sees 
I  watch  sometimes  the  girl  in  Paradise, — 
Pretty — and  young — with  laughter  in  her  eyes. 
[33] 


SUCCESS 

VV/HEN  Love  and  I  came  out  of  the  night 
^^  To  the  wind  and  the  sun  and  the 

high  bird's  call, 
With  the  highroad  before  us  wide  and  white, 
He  did  not  heed  me  at  all. 

He  loosed  my  hand  to  salute  the  day ; 

He  was  one  with  the  wind  and  the  soaring 
lark. 
He  called  me  to  follow  along  the  way — 

We  had  walked  so  close  in  the  dark ! 


[34] 


PIERRETTE 

ALL  his  gallant  youth  he  gave  to  love  them, 
Reverenced  and  honoured  not  a  few, 
Blue  eyes — black  eyes — how  he  bent  above 
them, 
Tender,  almost  true. 

Woman  in  her  glory  and  completeness, 

This  his  sum  of  knowledge  and  of  joys. 
Knew  her  moods,  her  vanities,  her  sweetness. 
As  a  child  his  toys. 

Ever  through  his  heart  the  sweet  progression 

Made  its  never-ending  wilful  way, 
Strange  of  all  that  varied,  vain  procession 
One  alone  might  stay. 

Nay — I  know,  for  yesterday  I  drew  him 
From  his  cherished  books  and  cameos, 
To  the  garden  where  the  slow  wind  threw  him 
A  welcome  from  its  rose. 
[351 


PIERRETTE 

Just  an  old  man  now  who  in  his  garden, 

Bends  and  lingers  by  the  blossomed  throng, 
A  little  sadly, — as  though  asking  pardon 
For  being  old  so  long. 

And  as  his  tremulous,  white  fingers  righted 

One  rose  that  bent  from  out  its  sister-band, 
A      white-winged      butterfly — bewildered — 
lighted 
A  moment  on  his  hand. 

Just  a  moment  and  as  quickly  vanished, 
But  he  stood,  his  hand  extended  yet, 
And  with  that  gallant  smile  the  years  had 
banished 
Said  one  name,  '"Pierrette!" 

That  was  all — no  other  word — no  story. 

We  paced  the  garden  till  the  West  was  red. 
Yet  in  that  instant  all  Youth's  flame  and 
glory 
Sprang  from  the  ashes  dead. 

Strange  that  a  heart  wherein  so  much  had 
perished. 
Where  many  loves  had  lingered  but  to  die. 
Of  all  the  dear — the  beautiful — but  cherished 
Pierrette — a  butterfly. 
f36l 


PIERRETTE 

And  so  I  think  of  all  who  stand  to  greet  him, 
When  Death  may  lead  him  where  his  own 
are  met, 
But  one  alone  shall  laugh  and  run  to  meet  him, 
But  one  alone — Pierrette. 


[37] 


A  CERTAIN  JOY 

A     CERTAIN  joy  unto  my  window-sill 
^^       Came  singing  through   the   morning 

yesterday. 
I  scarce  dared  smile,  so  still  I  sat,  so  still — 
Yet  did  it  fly  away. 

There,    when    my    red-cheeked    neighbour 
opposite 
Had    spread — ah!    craftily — her    rose-hid 
snare, 
So  still  I  sat,  I  heard  her  loud  delight, 
What  time  she  trapped  it  there. 

The  night  comes  on — I  ponder  many  things — 
Ah !  better  far  that  joy  should  fly  away 

Than  hold  it  thus  with  bruised  and  broken 
wings, 
And,  crippled,  bid  it  stay. 


[38] 


COPHETUA'S  QUEEN 

ly^Y  neck  was  never  bowed  before  I  hung  a 
'*'^*     jewel  on  it, 

My  hands  were  always  free  until  I  weighted 
them  with  rings. 
Till  I  found  the  golden  robe  and  the  pride  to 
don  it, 
Till  I  wore  the  silken  shoon  with  their  silver 

strings, 
I  ran  free  and  ragged  with  the  world's  wild 
things. 

Yet  honour  is  a  jewel,  and  one  is  proud  to 
bear  it. 
And  duty  makes  the  rings  I  wear  and  one 
would  keep  them  bright, 
A  King's  love  is  a  golden  robe  and  glad  am  I 
to  wear  it. 
And  I  must  walk  in  careful  paths  to  keep 
my  shoon  aright. 

/  wonder  how  the  brook  would  feel  to  naked 
feet  tonight ! 

[391 


THE  HOSTS   OF   MARY 

OHE  came  unto  a  great  tree 
^     With  low  boughs  and  fair, 
Out  of  the  hard  road 

And  the  noon's  glare; 
The  cool  shade  encircled  her 

Like  kind  arms  there. 

She  came  unto  a  still  brook 

In  a  green  place ; 
There  did  she  wash  the  dust 

From  her  sweet  face, 
There  did  she  stoop  and  drink, 

And  rest  a  space. 

The  great  tree,  the  little  brook — 

Kind  hosts  were  they ; 
Think  you  she  thought  of  them 

At  end  of  day, 
When  from  the  inn's  closed  door 

She  turned  away  ? 
[40] 


AT  THE  ROAD'S  END 

COMETIMES  the  road  was  a  twisted  riddle 
^    Where  one  might  stray  for  a  crooked 

mile, 
But  O,  she  danced  to  the  pipes  and  fiddle 
Most  of  the  while,  most  of  the  while. 

Sometimes  the  wind  and  the  rain  together 
Blurred  the  hill  that  she  needs  must  climb, 

But  O,  she  tripped  it  in  primrose  weather 
Most  of  the  time,  most  of  the  time. 

Who  may  say  that  the  journey  tried  her? 

Never  a  Romany  went  as  gay. 
Seeing  that  true  love  walked  beside  her 

All  of  the  way,  all  of  the  way. 


[41] 


GOOD-BYE,   MY  YOUTH 

/^OME  a  little  nearer!     Now  we  part, 
^^    Why  should  you  seem  dearer    to  my 
heart  ? 

Troublesome,  unruly,  discontent — 
Were  you  ever  truly  heaven-sent  ? 

Made  of  grief  and  blisses,  hopes  and  fears, 
I  have  known  your  kisses  and  your  tears. 

Joy,  when  joy  compelled  you,  day  by  day; 
Grief,  when  duty  held  you  from  your  way. 

Every  fancy  wooing,  false  or  true; 
Every  wind  pursuing — that  is  you. 

Now  the  years  grow  riper — why  romance? 
Child,  we  owe  the  piper  for  this  dance. 

Yours  is  all  the  riot,  pipes  and  drums — 
Now  I  long  for  quiet;  evening  comes. 

[421 


GOOD-BYE,  MY  YOUTH 

Evening  and  candlelight, — I  claim  my  due. 
Here  by  the  hearth-flame  bright,  good-bye  to 
you. 

Go  you  where  dreamland  lies  for  girls  and 

boys; 
Where  vanished  butterflies  still  have  their 

joys. 

Wanton,  tonight  we  part,  with  little  ruth; 
Yet — once  more  to  my  heart!  Good-bye,  my 
youth! 


43] 


ONE  WIFE 

CHE  knows  the  length  of  hell, 
^    The  space  between 
The  bland  clock  ticking  on  the  mantel  there 
And  the  window  screen. 


She  knows  the  look  of  hell, 

The  empty  street 
That  holds  no  form,  no  shadow  and  no  sound 

Of  stumbling  feet. 

She  knows  the  light  of  hell, 

The  first  grey  dawn 
That  tells  the  fading  lamp,  the  dying  hope 

That  night  has  gone. 


[44] 


THE  HOUSE  IN  TROUBLE 

A  S  we  rode  through  the  village,  the  houses 
'^*'    every  one 
Were  open  to  the  west  wind  and  merry  with 

the  sun ; 
All  except  the  one  house,  shuttered  from  the 

day, 
Like  a  soul  in  sorrow  who  hides  his  face  away. 

As  we  rode  past  the  village  it  would  not  quit 

my  mind — 
The  little  house  in  trouble  that  we  had  left 

behind ; 
Smoke  lifted  from  the  chimney,  but  the  closed 

door  cried, 
"Oh,  hurry  by,  oh,  hurry  by,  nor  seek  the 

grief  I  hide." 

O  little  house  in  trouble,  when  back  again  I 

ride, 
God  grant  I  see  your  windows  shine,  your 

door  flung  wide, 

[451 


THE  HOUSE  IN  TROUBLE 

And  all  your  new-grown  garden  tremulous 

with  Spring, 
Like  a  face  that  smiles  again  through  peace 

of  comforting. 


[46] 


THE  HEALED  ONES 

CHOULD  I  win  to   paradise  (since    even 
^         sinners  enter  there) , 

I  shall  not  seek  the  high  saints  with  crown 
and  aureole, 
But  I  shall  find  the  humble  ones,  the  healed 
ones,  that  centre  there, 
Who  followed  through  all  gratitude  the 
love  that  made  them  whole. 

He  who  once  was  blind  shall  tell  me  of  his  sight 
again, 
Tell  me  of  the  glory  that  flooded  land  and  sea, 
When  across  his  opened  eyes  surged  in  golden 
light  again 
The  yellow  sands — the  blue  waves — the  sun 
of  Galilee. 

I  shall  not  seek  the  martyrs,  the  staunch 
souls  victorious, 
Those  who  won  to  ecstasy  from  faggot  and 
from  rod ; 

[47] 


THE  HEALED  ONES 

But  I  shall  seek  the  simple  folk  in  no  fashion 
glorious, 
The  broken  straws  of  mankind  that  proved 
the  winds  of  God. 

He  who  once  was  dumb  shall  tell  me  his  first 
word  again; 
He  who  long  was  helpless  shall  tell  his  joy 
to  me 
When  first  his  bonds  were  broken  and  his  bound 
limbs  stirred  again — 
He  shall  tell  me  of  the  word  and  touch  that 
made  him  free. 

Never  saint  nor  martyr,  when  heaven  opened 
wide  to  him, 
Knew  a  greater  joy  than  these  whom  I  shall 
seek  therefore; 
And  a  little  lad  shall  tell  me  what  first  his  mother 
cried  to  him, 
When  he  who  limped  out  sighing,  ran  shout- 
ing through  the  door. 


48] 


LOVE  SPEAKS  TO  TIME 

V/OU  shall  have  all  my  vanities : 
*      The  curl  and  colour  of  my  hair, 
The  hundred  happy  coquetries, 

The  rose-hued  gowns  I  love  to  wear. 

Perhaps  I  shall  not  greatly  care. 
Or,  caring,  mourn  them  but  a  day ; 

But  oh !  this  joy,  this  joy  of  mine — 
May  this  not  stay  ? 

You  shall  take  laughter's  clearest  note. 
The  very  dancing  from  my  feet, 

The  warmth  and  whiteness  of  my  throat- 
I  shall  not  tremble  when  we  meet 
Save  for  this  joy  of  mine,  this  sweet 

Rose  of  delight  I  close  away 

Within  my  inmost  heart.    O  Time, 

May  this  not  stay? 

You  shall  have  all  that  women  prize : 
The  little  things  of  loveliness, 

4  [49] 


LOVE  SPEAKS  TO  TIME 

The  very  blue  from  my  two  eyes. 

I  would  not  stay  your  hand  with  less- 
But  oh !  my  singing  happiness, 

The  joy  that  lights  my  life  today ! 
You  shall  have  all  my  vanities — 

May  this  not  stay? 


50 


RUINS 

A  BOUT  the  time  the  Shakespeare  Club 
•**■    fell  through 

For  lack  of  members — then  the  movies  came 
And  woke  the  town  up .   Look  at  Judson  's  Hall 
That  never  had  a  crowd  before  (except 
The  time  the  Elks  here  gave  their  minstrel 

show) 
And  now  it's  packed  from  eight  till  half -past 
ten. 


The  people  drive  in  from  the  outside  farms, 
Mill-hands  and  servant  girls  and  half -grown 

boys 
With  giggling  girls, — the  usual  movie  crowd 
You'll  find  in  any  town,  with  kids  as  thick 
As  flies  about  the  windows  and  the  doors. 
I  take  them  in  sometimes — to  please  myself. 

Last  night,  between  a  comic  and  a  play 
They  slipped  a  reel  in,  "Ruins  of  Old  Rome." 
[51] 


RUINS 

Not  much  to  look  at, — broken  pillars,  big 
Ungainly  piles,  stone  buildings  looking  like 
A  court-house  in  the  earthquake  zone,  and 

some 
Statues  in  bad  condition. 

Well,  I  yawned 
Until  I  saw  a  man  in  front  of  me — 
A   big,    stoop-shouldered   fellow,    none   too 

young. 
Soft  collar  and  soft  hat — you  know  the  kind. 
Dopey,  I  called  him,  for  he  never  laughed 
At  any  of  the  comics. 

But  when  these 
Pictures  of  broken  things  came  on,  he  sat 
A  little  forward  in  his  chair,  and  stared ; 
And  once  I  heard  him  groan — so — through 

his  teeth — 
Just  once,  and  on  the  hand  that  gripped  his 

knee 
I  knew  his  knuckles  whitened. 

He  got  up 
And   shambled   out   before   the   show   was 
through. 

[52] 


RUINS 

I  asked  Ed  Stevens  who  he  was.    He  said, 
"Oh,  that's  Jim  Andrews  on  the  Eagle  here. 
He  draws  cartoons,  writes  jingles  now  and 

then. 
Fills   in   the   humour  column  when  they're 

short, — 
That  sort  of  thing. 

They  say  that  once  he  tried 
To  be  an  artist,  the  real  thing,  you  know, — 
Studied  in  Europe  and  all  that,  and  failed. 
And  came  back  broke.     Lives  with  his  old 

maid  aunt 
Who  keeps  the  boarding-house  on  Market 

Street. 
The  boys  say  he's  an  artist,  though,  all  right 
At  one  thing" — and  Ed    winked.   "Step  in 

the  bar," 
He  said.    "He'll  be  there  till  Joe  closes  up." 

We  went  and  had  our  beer.    The  place  was 

full 
Of  smoke  and  oaths  and  smells  and  talk  and 

noise. 
And  men  that  roared  out  jokes  and  stamped 

and  laughed. 

[53] 


RUINS 

Jim  Andrews  had  a  table  to  himself, 
Back  in  the  shadow,  close  beside  the  wall. 
Nobody  seemed  to  look  or  speak  to  him. 
Once  in  a  while  Joe  went  and  filled  his  glass, 
And  Andrews  nodded, — that  was  all.    He  sat, 
His  hat  pushed  down  until  it  hid  his  eyes. 
His  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  chin 
In  his  cupped  hands. 

He  sat  there  in  the  smoke, 
A  gilt  girl  advertising  someone's  beer 
Over  his  head. 

"He's  got  a  grouch  for  fair 
Tonight,"  Ed  said.  "We'd  better  let  him  be." 

We  went  out  in  the  night  and  left  him  there. 


[54 


BOOTS  AND   SHOES 

rAME  hung  me  a  crown  on  the  mountain  top 
•■■       Where  the  strongest  eagles  soar. 
I  had  only  to  climb  to  make  it  mine — 

Only  that — no  more; 
But  Happiness  left  a  pair  of  shoes — 

Dancing-shoes — at  my  door. 

Oh,  the  way  is  rough  to  the  mountain  top, 

And  the  dancing  green  is  fair ; 
And  there  all  day  do  the  fiddles  play, 

And  the  mountain  is  gaunt  and  bare ; 
And  one  has  blood  on  his  hob-nailed  boots, 

Ere  he  gains  the  summit  there. 

Happiness  left  me  dancing-shoes, 

Tasselled  and  trim  and  neat ; 
And  the  fiddles  play  and  the  dancers  sway 

And  my  partner's  face  is  sweet. 
There's  time  enough  for  a  lad  to  climb 

With  hob-nailed  boots  on  his  feet. 
[551 


THE  SHEPHERD  WHO  STAYED 

There  are  in  paradise 
Souls  neither  great  nor  wise. 
Yet  souls  who  wear  no  less 
The  Crowns  of  Faithfulness. 

MY  Master  bade  me  watch  the  flock  by 
night; 
My  duty  was  to  stay — I  do  not  know 
What  thing  my  comrades  saw  in  that  great 
Hght. 
I  did  not  heed  the  words  that  bade  them  go. 
I  know  not  were  they  maddened  or  afraid ; 
I  only  know  I  stayed. 

The  hillside  seemed  on  fire ;  I  felt  the  sweep 

Of  wings  above  my  head ;  I  ran  to  see 
If  any  danger  threatened  these  my  sheep. 

What  though  I  found  them  folded  quietly, 
What  though  my  brother  wept  and  plucked 
my  sleeve  ? — 

These  were  not  mine  to  leave. 
[56] 


THE  SHEPHERD  WHO  STAYED 

Thieves  in  the  wood  and  wolves  upon  the 
hill— 
My  duty  was  to  stay.    Strange  though  it  be, 
I  had  no  thought  to  hold  my  mates — no  will 
To  bid  them  wait  and  keep  the  watch  with 
me, 
I  had  not  heard  that  summons  they  obeyed — 
I  only  know  I  stayed. 

Perchance  they  will  return  upon  the  dawn 
With  word  of  Bethlehem  and  why  they 
went. 
I  only  know  that,  watching  here  alone, 

I  know  a  strange  content. 
I  have  not  failed  that  trust  upon  me  laid — 
I  ask  no  more — I  stayed. 


[57] 


A  MOOD^ 

nnODAY  there's  singing  on  my  lips 
'■'        (And  more  if  one  should  ask). 
Today  I  kiss  my  finger-tips 

And  curtsy  to  my  task. 
My  heart's  a  butterfly  today, 

The  world  a  garden  blows, 
With  every  wind  a  roundelay 

And  every  hour  a  rose. 

My  soul  is  vagabond  today, 

A  gypsy  on  the  grass 
Who  dances  by  the  King's  highway 

Where  solemn  coaches  pass. 
Angels  of  joy  whom  joy  must  please. 

Today  my  heart  hath  wings, 
And  'neath  your  golden  balconies 

A  mirth-mad  Pierrot  sings. 


58 


THE  WINDOWS 

THE  windows  of  the  little  house  look  down 
the  crooked  lane, 
Windows  that  are  watching  like  a  child's 
wide  eyes, 
Hopeful  in  the  sunshine  and  wistful  in  the  rain 
And  anxious  in  the  winter  when  the  blown 
snow  flies. 

Morning  after  morning  I  walk  the  fields  a  mile, 
I  go  to  town  and  back  again — I  swing  the 
little  gate. 
But  though  I  lift  my  face  to  them  the  win- 
dows never  smile, 
They  only  look  above  my  head  and  watch, 
and  watch — and  wait. 

Long  since  my  watching  ended — the  heart- 
throbs and  the  care. 
'Tis  only  for  the  little  house  I  keep  its 
windows  bright, 
[591 


THE  WINDOWS 

And  sometimes  on  a  May  day  put  a  crimson 
flower  there, 
Or  a  lamp  that  burns  unshaded  on  a  wild 
Fall  night. 


[60] 


SIGNS 

T^HE  city  has  a  million  lights ; 
*      They  blaze  on  shops  and  shows  and  bars, 
Through  all  the  blaring,  crowded  nights 
They  dim  the  glory  of  the  stars. 

But  in  the  day,  one  only  sees 

Dull  frames  and  hoardings  where  these 
stood, 
Unlit  by  flashing  witcheries — 

Poor  things  of  lettering  and  wood. 

And  high  above  the  domes  and  towers. 
Glowing  and  glorious  and  bright, 

God  swings  his  sign  for  working  hours, — 
His  undimmed,  golden  sphere  of  light. 

Before  the  door  of  heaven,  the  sun ; 

Before  the  marts  of  men,  the  mean 
And  burned-out  lights  of  Babylon, — 

And  we — bewildered  moths — between. 
[611 


W] 


THE  FATHER 

were  such  friends,  such  lovers,  she  and 


No  door  closed  ever  between  mind  and 
mind — 
And  surely  I  shall  love  him  by  and  by — 
This  tiniest  rival  of  all  humankind. 

Perhaps  no  man  may  ever  understand 

The  woman's  brooding  o'er  the  child  she 
bore; 

Yet  strange  it  is  that  such  a  little  hand 
Should  close  so  great  a  door. 


62 


A  BALLAD  OF  EASTER 

I  HEARD  two  soldiers  talking 
As  they  came  down  the  hill — 
The  sombre  hill  of  Calvary, 
Bleak  and  black  and  still. 
And  one  said,  "The  night  is  late; 
These  thieves  take  long  to  die." 
And  one  said,     ' '  I  am  sore  afraid, 
And  yet  I  know  not  why." 


I  heard  two  women  weeping 

As  down  the  hill  they  came. 
And  one  was  like  a  broken  rose, 

One  was  like  a  flame. 
And  one  said,  **Now  men  shall  rue 

This  deed  their  hands  have  done." 
And  one  said  only  through  her  tears, 

''My  Son!    My  Son!    My  Son!" 
[63] 


A  BALLAD  OF  EASTER 

I  heard  two  angels  singing 

Ere  yet  the  dawn  was  bright, 
And  they  were  clad  in  shining  robes, 

Robes  and  crowns  of  light. 
And  one  sang,  ** Death  is  vanquished," 

And  one  in  golden  voice 
Sang,  "Love  hath  conquered,  conquered  all: 

O  Heaven  and  Earth,  rejoice!" 


64 


GRATITUDE^ 

VV/HEN  Death  at  last  shall  take  my  hand 
^^      and  lead  me  to  his  gateway  dim, 
There  at  the  threshold  I  shall  pause  to  make 

my  one  request  of  him. 
I  think  that  he  will  smile  and  say,  '  *  One  mo- 
ment, then,"  and  I  shall  run 
Across  that  narrow  space  where  Life  walks 

with  her  face  toward  the  sun ; 
And  I  shall  say,  ' '  I  have  come  back  one  little 

moment  more  to  bless 
And  thank  you  for  my  splendid  years  of  love 

and  song  and  happiness ; 
O,  thank  you,  thank  you,"  I  shall  say,  and 

kiss  my  hand,  and,  happily 
Run  back  across  that  narrow  space  where 

Death,  benignant,  waits  for  me. 


65 


LOVE  SONGS 

A  S  many  songs  of  love  there  are 
'**•    As  green  leaves  in  a  summer  wood, 
While  yet  the  autumn  is  afar 
And  the  swift  rains  are  good. 

And  some  leaves  fall  in  any  storm 

And  some  dance  lightly  East  and  West ; 

But  some — ah,  some  cling  soft  and  warm 
About  a  nest. 


66 


ST.  CECILIA'S  CHOIR  « 

T^HE  little  neighbour  led  me  in,  across  the 
•■•      class-room,  up  the  stairs. 
Into  that  very  room  so  long  the  centre  of  my 

daring  prayers. 
For  there  at  the  piano  sat  he  who  might  grant 

my  heart's  desire, 
That  Fate  who  judged  the  voices  fit  to  sing  in 

St.  Cecilia's  choir. 

To  sing  in  St.  Cecilia's  choir — that  meant  to 

rise  in  starched  state, 
And  sing  while  all  the  church  admired,  with 

dignitaries  forced  to  wait. 
That  meant  rehearsals — lovely  things,  and 

late  hours  sanctioned  by  one's  sire, 
And  ice-cream  festivals  whereat  would  chant 

the  St.  Cecilia  choir. 

And  I  who  knew  nor  time  nor  key,  nor  when 
to  stop,  nor  when  to  start, — 
[671 


ST.  CECILIA'S  CHOIR 

The  object  of  a  brother's  scorn,  the  anguish 

of  a  parent's  heart — 
I,  tuneless,  toneless,  even  I,  dared  through 

sheer  longing  to  aspire 
To  sit  among  those  fifty  mates  that  made  the 

St.  Cecilia  choir. 

And  he — that  judge  who  held  my  fate — I  saw 

him  as  I  see  him  now : 
The  rough,  white  hair,  the  heavy  form,  the 

eyes  beneath  the  generous  brow. 
I  stood  as  any  peasant  might  before  Apollo 

and  his  lyre ; 
He  glanced  and  struck  a  note,  and  I — I  tried 

for  St.  Cecilia's  choir. 

My  face  was  flame,  my  feet  were  ice,  my  heart 

one  passionate  appeal ; 
I  tried  so  hard  to  follow  him — this  Master  of 

my  woe  or  weal ; 
He  struck  another  note — and  frowned;  then 

wheeled  about — O,  portent  dire ! — 
And  looked  her  through — this  imp  who  dared 

to  dream  of  St.  Cecilia's  choir! 

Perhaps  he  only  saw  a  child  and  not  an  image 
of  despair, 

[68] 


ST.  CECILIA'S  CHOIR 

A  child  with  round,  imploring  eyes  beneath 
her  boyish,  close- cropped  hair. 

He  looked — he  laughed — he  laughed  again, 
and  then — I  turned  from  ice  to  fire — 

He  nodded,  waved  his  hand,  and  I — was  one 
with  St.  Cecilia's  choir. 

Peace  on  his  soul ! — I  like  to  think  he  guessed 

that  desperate  request, 
Who  let  the  kindness  of  his  heart  subdue  the 

critic  in  his  breast : 
Nor  do  I  doubt  when  angels  chant  in  his 

abode  of  song  and  bliss. 
Some  little  cherub  off  the  key  will  know  that 

kindly  laugh  of  his. 


169 


THE  HOUSE  IN  ORDER 

J  HA  VE  been  so  untidy  all  my  days. 

I  only  thought  to  make  my  House  of  Life 
A  place  of  happiness — a  dwelling  bright 
With  mirth,  and  gay  with  hearth  and  lantern- 

Hght; 
A  banquet-hall  wherein  the  board  was  set 
For  many  mates.    But  now  the  time  has  come 
To  set  my  house  in  order, — to  prepare 
For  that  last  guest.    About  me  everywhere 
Are  soiled,  unlovely  things.     My  floors  are 

marked 
With  many  footsteps  and  my  table  stained 
With  wine  rings.    There  are  broken  things  to 

mend 
Pushed  back  upon  the  shelves — old  faiths — 

old  hopes 
And  dingy  ornaments.    Once  cherished  things 
That  youth  outgrew,  old  friendships  and  old 

loves — 

[70] 


THE  HOUSE  IN  ORDER 

These  to  be  mended,  these  to  be  made  bright. 
O,  there  is  much  to  do  before  the  night 
Brings  my  last  guest.    I  will  throw  wide  the 

door 
And  all  my  windows  to  the  sun  and  wind ; 
I  will  wipe  out  these  footprints  on  the  floor. 
Surely  I  shall  have  time,  before  he  comes, 
To  set  my  house  in  order ;  to  arrange 
The  fair,  white  linen  ready  to  his  hands; 
To  lay  my  table  in  a  quiet  room 
With  cleanliness  and  peaceful  candlelight. 
I  will  work  very  hard  the  live-long  day. 
For  when  the  sun  is  setting  he  will  come — 
That  guest  who  cries  no  greeting  at  my  gate, 
Who  casts  no  slanting  shadow  on  the  lawn. 
I  do  not  know  what  face  he  may  disclose 
Beneath  his  mantle.    Who  may  say,  indeed, 
It  is  not  God's?    One  should  not  be  ashamed 
To  bid  him  in.    My  house  at  close  of  day 
Must  be  in  order. 

There  is  much  to  do. 


[71 


THE  CONQUEROR 

'T'HEY  saw  her  conquer  sorrow  day  by  day, 
•■■      Laugh,  sing  and  hide  with  roses  every 

scar; 
And  deemed  it  but  her  right  to  hear  them  say, 
"How  brave — how  brave  you  are!" 

A    high    reward! — They    never    knew    nor 
guessed 
How  all  her  heart  but  craved  a  beggar's 
dole, 
Yearning  for  any  voice  from  all  the  rest 
To  say,  "Poor  Soul,  poor  Soul!" 


[72] 


THE   REBUILDERS 

\Y/^  send  them  off  to  school  again  today, 
^^      This  cool  September  morning.     All 
the  street 
Is  musical  with  patter  of  small  feet, 
And  little,  shining  faces  all  the  way 

Seem   wayside   posies    for   our  smiles  to 
greet. 

I  wonder  if  they  ever  guess  or  know 
With   what    strange    tenderness    we    watch 
them  so? 

Just  children  on  their  way  to  school  again? 
Nay,  it  is  ours  to  watch  a  greater  thing. 
These  are  the  World's  Rebuilders!    These 
must  bring 
Order  to  chaos,  comforting  to  pain 

And  light  in  blasted  fields  new  fires  of 
Spring. 

[731 


THE  REBUILDERS 

Dear  Lord,  Thy  childish  hands  were  weak  and 

small, 
Yet  had  they  power  to  clasp  the  world  withal, — 
Grant  these.  Thy   little   kindred,   strength  as 

true, — 
They  have  so  much  to  learn,  so  much  to  do! 


74 


THE  PLACE  OF  DREAMS 

DACK  to  the  Place  of  Dreams  I  came, 
'■-'     where  I  was  young  so  long — 
An  old  house  in  the  sunset's  flame,  the  great 
sea's  crooning  song. 

And  there  upon  the  dunes  one  stood  who  gave 

no  heed  to  me, 
A  slender  slip  of  maidenhood  between  the 

sun  and  sea. 

The  sea  wind  on  her  gypsy  face,  the  sea  spray 

on  her  hair, 
For  all  I  shared  the  selfsame  place  she  did 

not  heed  me  there. 

Only  upon  the  sand-dunes  high  she  stood  as 

one  who  sees 
Between  the  blue  of  sea  and  sky  his  outbound 

argosies, 

[75] 


THE  PLACE  OF  DREAMS 

And  dares  to  dream  of  their  return  with 

treasures  manifold, 
With  strange,  great  gems  that  flash  and  burn 

and  cloth  of  vair  and  gold. 

Ah !  Well  she  did  not  guess  at  all,  the  loss  that 

shipwreck  seems, 
Or  know  what  havoc  would  befall  her  fragile 

fleet  of  dreams. 

But  I — I  turned  and  left  her  there ;  she  did  not 

see  me  go — 
A  dreaming  girl  with  wind-tossed  hair  that 

once  I  used  to  know. 

Oh,  little  ghost,  dream  on  content;  not  yours 

life's  wreck  and  wrong. 
Out  from  the  Place  of  Dreams  I  went  where  I 

was  young  so  long. 


[76] 


JUDGMENT 

COME  plod  through  dusty  lowlands,  and 

*^       some  fly 

On  even  wings  beneath  a  constant  sky ; 
Yet  surely  this  is  very  good  to  know: 
Little  the  Master  recks  of  how  we  go ; 

Not  His  to  mark  the  devious,  winding  ways 

Of  that  long  journey  through  the  little  days ; 
Not  His  to  plan  the  separate  road  for  each, 
Who  judges  only  by  that  goal  we  reach. 

Nor  do  I  think  the  angels  smile  to  see 
How  blindly  some  may  grope  and  awkwardly ; 
Nor  do  I  think  their  high  approval  springs 
For  those  who  know  the  glorious  gift  of 
wings. 
Only  I  think  that,  all  exultant,  one 
Glad  watcher  from  the  ramparts  of  the  sun 
May  cry,  ' '  Rejoice !    Another  valiant  soul 
Unaided  and  alone  hath  reached  the  goal ! " 
f771 


THE  STRANGER 

f  HAVE  a  longing  on  me  for  my  own  land — 
*     Oh,  people  of  the  mountains,  let  me  be ! 
For  the  wide,  flat  meadows  and  the  gray  sand 
And  the  sound  of  the  singing  of  the  sea. 

I  have  need  to  walk  the  long,  level  roads  again 
To  watch  the  white  sea-fog  roll  in, 

To  call  out  the  weather  to  the  fishermen 
When  the  soft,  white  nights  begin. 

I  would  question  how  the  bulkheads  stand 
When  the  high  September  tides  run  free ; 

I  have  a  longing  on  me  for  my  own  land — 
Oh,  people  of  the  mountains,  let  me  be ! 


78 


MORS   BENIGNA 

I  DO  not  think  of  him  as  one  who  stalks, 
*       a  helpless  enemy, 

Who  some  day  will  blot  out  the  sun,  and  lay 
relentless  hands  on  me; 

Nay,  rather  do  I  think  of  him  as  one  who  in  all 

kindness  waits 
At  the  road's  end,  when  shadows  dim,  to 

draw  me  gently  through  his  gates, 

And  lead  me,  like  some  kindly  host  that  gives 

a  long-expected  guest 
The  comfort  that  he  craves  the  most — the 

hospitality  of  rest. 

So  shall  I  think  of  him  each  day,  while  the 

road  shortens  mile  by  mile. 
Guessing  the  word  that  he  will  say — almost 

familiar  with  his  smile. 
[791 


MORS  BENIGNA 

No  foe  with  fury  in  his  breath  shall  charge  me 

from  some  ambushed  place, 
For  I  shall  make  a  friend  of  Death  long,  long 

before  I  see  his  face. 


80 


A  VOICE  AT  THE  DOOR 

DRETTY  one,  sad  one,  lift  up  your  eyes 
*         and  greet  me ; 

The  April  wind  is  in  the  land  and  apple- 
blossoms  drift. 
Come  from  out  your  shadowed  place — take 
a  step  to  meet  me. 
I  am  new  Love,  true  Love — who  comes 
with  many  a  gift. 

With  fresh,  red  roses  bespangled  with  the  dew 
For   the  withered   ones   your   sweet   hands 
cherish, 
With  a  handful  of  happy  dreams  to  all  come 
true 
In  place  of  the  wistful  ones  that  perish. 

Pretty  one,  sad  one,  lift  up  your  eyes  nor 
doubt  me; 
I  am  new  Love,  true  Love  who  at  your 
threshold  stands, 
6  [81] 


A  VOICE  AT  THE  DOOR 

The  West  wind  comes  in  with  me,  the  sun  is 
all  about  me, 
And  the  first  gift  of  many  gifts  is  eager  for 
your  hands. 

A  long  love  letter,  clean  and  crisp  and  new. 
Every  word  as  fragrant  as  a  blossom, 

In  place  of  that  old  one  almost  wept  in  two 
That  lies  like  a  sorrow  in  your  bosom. 


82 


THE   LYRIC 

A    YOUNGSTER  in  the  Regent's  time 
'**'    One  day  poured  out  his  heart  in  rhyme 
And  slipped  the  manuscript  between 
"Ye  Sermons  of  Sylvanus  Greene," 

For  there  I  found  it, 
As  walking  through  dark  woods  and  chill 
One  comes  upon  a  daffodil 

With  sunshine  round  it. 
What  of  the  writer?    Dust  so  long. 
The  heart  and  hand  that  made  his  song 

To  Kate  or  Nancy ; 
Naught  but  a  lyric,  faded,  dim, 
To  give  a  ghostly  glimpse  of  him — 

Still,  let  us  fancy 
That,  losing  Romance  from  his  state, 
He  took  Ambition  for  a  mate, 

At  her  dictation 
Forsook  the  Muse  and  travelled  far, 
Say — studied  law,  attained  the  bar. 

Gained  wealth  and  station; 
[83] 


THE  LYRIC 

In  time  achieved  the  wig  and  gown 
And  graced  the  bench  in  London  town, 

No  judge  empiric. 
His  people  never  knew,  'tis  said, 
The  reason  why  he  died  unwed ; 

But  here's  his  lyric : 

"O  joy,  sing  joy,  I  sent  my  Love  a  posy, 
She  took  it  and  she  kissed  it  and  she  wore  it 
on  her  breast. 
All  the  world  was  happiness  and  all  the  clouds 
were  rosy, 
And  I  thought  about  the  Parson  who  could 
read  the  service  best. 

**0  sing  sorrow,  I  sent  my  Love  a  posy 
With  never  mark  nor  sign  thereon  to  show 
the  owner's  name. 
But  now  I  wish  had  gone  with  it  a  billet 
rhymed  or  prosy. 
For  that  she  gave  another  thanks  who 
bowed  and  took  the  same. 


'*0  woe,  sing  woe,  I  sent  my  Love  a  posy, 
And  all  the  good  it  might  have  done  an- 
other hath  possessed. 
[84] 


THE  LYRIC 

And  now  she's  walking  out  with  him,  con- 
tented all  and  cozy, 
And  no  one  knows  'tis  my  heart  that  is 
fading  on  her  breast." 


[85] 


GIANTS 


I  WALKED  with  giants  once  upon  the  height 
For  that  one  look  you  gave  me  one  May 
night. 

Comrade  of  theirs  was  I  as  bold  as  strong 
For  that  one  note  I  dreamed  into  your  song. 

By  none  could  I  be  worsted  or  o'erthrown, 
Feeling  your  hands  a  moment  in  my  own. 

II 

Now  must  I  face  my  giants  one  by  one — 
I  who  but  dreamed  a  dream  and  wake  alone — 
Love,  Joy,  and  High  Ambition  and  Delight. 
What  though  I  battle  through  the  live- 
long night 
Seeing  that  Love  must  slay  me  ere  'tis  done? 
[861 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  HOUSE 

I  AST  night  the  West  wind  bent  the  pop- 
*— '      lars'  boughs 

And  like  a  whisper  passed  above  the  lawn : 
"The  well-beloved  Master  of  the  House 

"Is  gone,"  it  said;  "is  gone!" 


White  in  the  whiter  moon  the  great  house 
rose 
And  its  unlighted  windows  blank  and  drear, 
Murmured  each  one  the  while  the  wind  drew 
close — 
"He  is  not  here!" 

The  Trees: 

His  was  the  first  of  human  love  we  knew. 
New  strength  he  gave  us — leaf  and 
bough  and  limb. 
Closer  we  held  our  little  singing  crew 
Because  of  him. 
[871 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  HOUSE 

Daily  he  walked  among  us;  now  there 
stirs 
A  grief  like  some  great  wind  that  bows 
us  thus. 
Oh,  little  birds  that  were  his  pensioners, 
Mourn  ye  with  us. 

The  Birds: 

There  were  no  crumbs  this  morning  at 
the  door. 
No  kindly  voice  to  greet  our  downward 
flight. 
Oh,  Brothers,  let  us  sing  to  him  once 
more — 
He  still  may  heed  tonight. 

A  Rose  in  the  Garden: 

Waken  and  heed,  my  sisters!     He  our 
lover 
Will  come  no  more  to  watch  our  blos- 
soming, 
And,   smiling,   bend   to   say  our  sweet 
names  over. 

A  Columbine  : 

How  may  this  be  in  Spring? 
[881 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  HOUSE 

The  House  : 

Many  came  through  my  door  today — not 
he! 
Many  came  out.     He  did  not.     Tell 
me,  then, 
Whence  comes  this  loneliness — this  want 
in  me 
Unknown  of  men  ? 
Surely,  the  dawn  must  bring  his  voice 

once  more. 
He  passed  not  through  my  door. 


A  Dog  at  the  Threshold  : 

He  has  not  called  nor  whistled;  I  have 

waited 

So  patiently — I  have  not  moved  at  all. 

My  ears  are  bent  to  hear  the  step  belated 

When  I  will  spring  to  meet  him  in  the 

hall 

And  leap  to  touch  his  hand.    I  must  not 

move 
Lest  I  should  miss  him ;  must  not  take  my 

sight 
From  that  one  door.    Oh,  Master  of  my 

love, 
I  have  been  very  patient.    Come  tonight ! 
[89] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  HOUSE 

A  Voice  in  the  Garden  : 

Oh,  Master  of  the  House — the  voices  call 

And  will  not  cease. 
Surely,  this  wistfulness  is  audible 

Even  in  your  far  peace. 
And  so  I  may  not  doubt  that  once  again 
Your  stricken  garden  shall  rejoice,  your 
trees 
Toss  their  green  boughs  in  rapture — nor 

in  vain 
One  little,  faithful  friend  shall  watch  by 

these. 
We  may  not  guess,  we  humans  blind  and 
dull, 
That  day  your  halls  may  sing — your 
trees  carouse; 
Yet    these    shall    know    that    moment 
beautiful — 
I  may  not  doubt,  oh.  Master  of  the 
House ! 


90 


THE  LIKE  O'  HIM 

V/^UNG  men  a-plenty  have  passed  the  door, 
"■-       Broad  in   the  shoulder   and  strong  of 

limb, 
But  never  my  two  eyes  saw  before 
The  like  o'  him! 

The  drummers  and  fif ers  woke  the  town ; 

The  lads  were  leanin'  from  roofs  and  trees, 
And  the  girls  came  swarming  up  and  down 
The  like  o'  bees. 

I  stood  by  the  hedge  to  watch  them  pass, 

Laughin'  and  lookin'  the  way  they  came, 
The  sunshine  glintin'  on  steel  and  brass 
The  like  o'  flame. 

And  himself  looked  down  as  I  looked  up — 
'Twas  first  he  went  in  the  marchin'  line, 
And  the  light  of  his  eyes  might  fill  a  cup 
The  like  o'  wine. 
[911 


THE  LIKE  O'  HIM 

A  proper  lot  are  soldierin*  men — 

Plenty  I've  seen  of  them,  tall  and  trim; 
But  Faith,  I'll  not  be  seeing  again 
The  like  o' him! 

He's  fit  for  ladies  in  silken  gowns — 

And  well  I  know,  if  he  turns  to  see, 
There's  fifty  girls  in  as  many  towns 
The  like  o'  me. 

Ah,  well!  the  hedges  are  comin'  green; 

I'm  walkin'  out  with  Terry  and  Tim, 
Walkin' — and  wishin'  I'd  never  seen 
The  like  o' him! 


92 


HOW  MANY  WOMEN 

T   TOW  many  women  this  moon-smitten  night 
•■•  *    Liesleepless,smiling,holding  each  apart, 
Like  exquisite  white  roses  on  her  heart, 
The  wondrous  words   Love  whispered 
her  all  day, 
Fearful  lest  slumber  dim  their  dear  delight. 

Oh,  happy  sisters,  through  the  moon  and  dew 
Here  with  my  roses  I  rejoice  with  you ! 

How  many  women  this  moon-smitten  night 
Turn  from  its  wonder  lest  their  hearts  may 

break, 
And,    yearning,    only    sleep — yet    count 
awake 
Each  empty  hour,  these  steps  that  lead 
from  Love, 
Praying  but  rest,  but  rest  in  joy's  despite. 

Oh,  sisters,  would  tonight  your  eyes  might  take 
This  sleep  I  banish  for  my  roses'  sake! 
[93] 


BLIGHTY 

TPHE  train  purred  into  Charing  Cross, 
"*•      The  nurse  bent  overhead. 
"A  moment  now  and  we'll  be  in; 

Lie  easy,  lad,"  she  said. 
Lie  easy !     Never  easier ! 

Small  wonder  if  she  guessed 
It  was  the  noise  of  London 

That  soothed  him  into  rest. 

The  nurses  came,  the  doctors  came. 

The  stretcher-bearers  last ; 
Mute  crowds  about  the  platform 

Uncovered  as  he  passed ; 
The  ambulance  crawled  through  the  Arch 

And  then — he  heard  it  clear — 
It  was  the  voice  of  London 

That  said,  ''Old  man,  you're  here!" 

He'll  never  know  the  girl's  name 
Beside  the  curb  who  cried, 
[941 


BLIGHTY 

''Here's  luck,  my  lad ! "  and  tossed  the  bunch 

Of  posies  at  his  side — 
A  bunch  of  English  daffodils, 

Yet  never  gift  as  rare — 
It  was  the  love  of  London 

His  one  hand  Hfted  there. 


[95 


THE  STORM^ 

'  I  'HE  souls  of  the  cruel,  dead  kings  ride  out 
*        on  the  wind  tonight, 
They  slash  the  trees  as  they  pass,  and  the 

branches  shiver  and  fall; 
They  thunder  with  galloping  hoofs  on  the 
roofs  of  cottage  and  hall, 
And  the  flame  on  the  hearth  leaps  high,  and 
we  cross  ourselves  in  fright. 

Kings  that  were  slain  in  fury,  and  kings  that 
perished  in  pride, 
They  have  bridled  the  black  North  winds 

and  loosed  them  to  work  their  will. 
They  crash  through  the  lowest  valley,  they 
sweep  up  the  highest  hill. 
And  the  sound  of  a  thousand  trumpets  goes 
with  them  the  while  they  ride. 

The  souls  of  the  cruel,  dead  kings  are  out  in 
the  hail  and  snow. 
[96] 


THE  STORM 

(That  was  a  mailed  hand  striking  just  now 

at  the  window  bars) ! 
I  wish  I  might  think  of  my  placid  saints  or 

the  friendly,  vigilant  stars ; 
But  my  heart  is  a  blown  and  trampled  leaf 

on  the  roads  the  mad  kings  go. 


[97] 


GARDENS 

HTHE  rain  that  beat  the  whole  night  long 
•■•      was  still  when  night  was  gone, 
(O  sorrow  beating  on  my  heart,  how  long 
before  you  cease?) 
All  the  garden  rose  and  shone  and  sparkled 
in  the  dawn — 
Glad,  oh,  so  glad  again  of  warmth  and 
light  and  peace ! 

If  you  should  forgive  me — as  you  will  never 
do— 
My  heart  would  be  a  garden  after  rainfall 
in  the  sun. 
Shining,  growing,   glowing  with  a  hundred 
loves  of  you ; 
But  oh,  it's  wear}^  waiting  till  the  long 
rain's  done! 

If  you  should  forgive  me  sometime  when  I  am 
old, 

[981 


GARDENS 

I  would  break  my  youth  in  bits  to  hurry  on 

the  day. 
A  garden  lifts  and  lives  again  for  all  the  rain 

and  cold, 
But,  oh,  its  weary  waiting  when  the  sun's 

away! 


[99] 


HERSELF 

W7HEREVER  she  was,  was  laughin'  and 
^^      singin'  and  story-tellin', 
And  kind  words  of  the  old  friends,  the  like 
there  were  there  to  hear; 
And  always  the  bite  and  sup  for  the  schuler 
that  marked  her  dwellin'. 
And  herself  with  the  step  of  a  girl — and 
close  to  seventy  year. 

Eh,  blue  eyes,  that  I  knew  when  they  were  young. 
The  sorrows  of  a  long  life  could  never  dim 
their  light; 
Still  I  know  there's  laughin'  and  still  a  song  is 
sung, 
And  still  a  kind  word  spoken  where  you  may 
he  this  night. 

Wherever  she  was,  was  comfort  and  all  that 
she  had  for  sharin' ; 
[100] 


HERSELF 

The  water  she  gave  from  the  well  was  better 

than  drink  at  a  fair. 
Never  a  daughter  she  had  with  the  half  of  her 

wit  and  darin', 
With  the  like  of  her  rosy  cheeks  or  the  curl 

of  her  silver  hair. 

Eh,  woman  dear,  who  was  joy  to  me  so  long. 
There's  many  ran  to  greet  you  in  the  place  of 
your  delight; 
And  I  think  you  do  be  sayin\  between  tJie  mirth 
and  song. 
The  kind  word  for  one  old  friend  who's  mis  sin' 
you  this  night. 


101] 


THE  WITCH- WIFE 

NTONE  of  our  village  would  he  wed, 

My  son,  but  brought  across  the  sea 
A  woman  with  loose  locks  of  red 
To  brew  my  wine  and  make  my  bread 
And  take  a  daughter's  place  with  me. 

Her  eyes  are  darker  than  the  night 

When  lightning  flames  across  the  wold; 
Her  flesh  is  white  as  curds  are  white. 
Her  form  is  of  a  strong  man's  height 
And  red  her  mouth  as  daemon's  gold. 

She  will  not  sew;  she  will  not  spin; 

She  heeds  no  word  of  aught  I  say ; 
And  her  curved  smile  is  like  a  sin 
When — (lest  my  son's  ship  ne'er  come  in) 

I  say  old  prayers  for  him  each  day. 

At  hearth  and  board  her  place  is  set; 
Of  my  son's  bed  she  hath  her  share — 
[102] 


THE  WITCH-WIFE 

(He  hath  been  long  away) — and  yet 
No  tears  have  made  her  strange  eyes  wet, 
And  not  to  any  god  her  prayer. 

My  son  is  mighty  among  men, 

Strong-armed  and  fair  and  passing  wise, 
Who  had  no  thought  for  maids.    Where,  then, 
Found  he  this  one  of  all  women 

To  lure  him  with  her  stormy  eyes? 

I  know  she  is  no  mortal  maid. 

But  one  of  whom  my  granddam  told. 
Born  of  strange  sins  and,  netlike,  laid 
To  catch  men's  lives,  and,  unafraid. 

Drink  of  their  blood  and  leave  them  cold. 

For  see !    That  month  I  watched  her  first 
(For  my  son's  sake  I  did  this  thing) 

I  knew  her  for  a  witch  accursed. 

One  in  a  pool  of  sin  immersed 
And  wedded  with  a  devil's  ring. 

Because  I  made  and  gave  her  name 
A  waxen  form,  and  three  times  three 

Long  nights  it  melted  by  the  flame ; 

Yet  every  morn  she  woke  the  same, 
And  smiled  upon  me  cunningly. 
[103] 


THE  WITCH-WIFE 

And  all  this  day  I  watched  her  stand 

High-poised  between  the  sea  and  sky; 
With  turn  and  waving  of  her  hand 
I  know  what  ship  she  draws  to  land, 
What  storms  she  brews  to  drive  it  by. 

Ere  that  ship  comes  is  much  to  do, 

(For  my  son's  sake  I  must  be  bold) ; 
She  thinks  to  have  her  feast  anew. 
To  stain  her  mouth  a  redder  hue 

And  drain  his  blood  for  her  hair's  gold. 

Here  at  my  spinning  do  I  sit 

And  say  no  word,  but,  sick  with  dread, 
Plan  snares  to  foil  her  awful  wit 
With  book  and  bell,  or,  failing  it, 

Find  if  a  witch's  blood  be  red. 

The  ship  draws  near,  and  to  and  fro 

There  goes  a  swinging  in  my  brain ; 
Two  kissed  my  son  and  watched  him  go — 
Mother  or  witch,  I  dare  not  know 
Which  one  will  bid  him  home  again. 


[104] 


THOSE  WHO  WENT  FIRST 
1914 

A  DISTANT  bugle  summoned  them  by 
day, 
A  far  flame  beckoned  them  across  the  night. 
They   rose — they   flung    accustomed    things 

away, — 
The  habit  of  old  days  and  new  delight. 
They  heard — they  saw — they  turned  them 

over-seas, — 
Oh,  Land  of  ours,  rejoice  in  such  as  these ! 

This  was  no  call  that  sounded  at  their  door, 
No    wild    torch    flaming    in    their    window 

space, — 
Yet  the  quick  answer  went  from  shore  to 

shore, 
The  swift  feet  hastened  to  the  trysting  place. 
Laughing,  they  turned  to  death  from  peace 

and  ease, — 
Oh,  Land  of  ours,  be  proud  of  such  as  these! 
[1051 


THOSE  WHO  WENT  FIRST 

High    hearts — great    hearts — whose    valour 

strikes  for  us 
Out  of  the  awful  dissonance  of  war 
The  perfect  note,  in  you  the  chivalrous 
Young  seekers  of  the  Grail  relive  once  more. 
Acclaimed    of   men — or   fallen    where    none 

sees — 
Oh,  Land  of  ours,  be  glad  of  such  as  these ! 


1061 


THE  SOUL  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  ^ 


1915 

^HE  came  not  into  the  Presence  as  a  mar- 
^    tyred  saint  might  come, 
Crowned,  white-robed  and  adoring,  with  very 

reverence  dumb; 
She  stood  as  a  straight,  young  soldier,  confident, 

gallant,  strong, 
Who  asks  a  boon  of  his  captain  in  the  sudden 

hush  of  the  drum. 

She  said:    *'Now  have  I  stayed  too  long  in 

this  my  place  of  bliss, 
With  these  glad  dead  that,  comforted,  forget 

what  sorrow  is 
Upon  that  world  whose  stony  stairs  they 

climbed  to  come  to  this. 

But  lo !  a  cry  hath  torn  the  peace  wherein  so 
long  I  stayed, 

[1071 


THE  SOUL  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

Like  a  trumpet's  call  at  heaven's  wall  from 

a  herald  unafraid, 
A  million  voices  in  one   cry,    'Where  is  the 

Maid,  the  Maid?' 

I  had  forgot  from  too  much  joy  that  olden 

task  of  mine, 
But  I  have  heard  a  certain  word  shatter  the 

chant  divine, 
Have  watched  a  banner  glow  and  grow  before 

mine  eyes  for  sign. 

I  would  return  to  that  my  land  flung  in  the 

teeth  of  war, 
I  would  cast  down  my  robe  and  crown  that 

pleasure  me  no  more, 
And  don  the  armour  that  I  knew,  the  valiant 

sword  I  bore! 

And  angels  militant  shall  fling  the  gates  of 

heaven  wide, 
And  souls  new-dead  whose  lives  were  shed 

like  leaves  on  war's  red  tide 
Shall  cross  their  swords  above  our  heads  and 

cheer  us  as  we  ride. 

For  with  me  goes  that  soldier  saint,  Saint 
Michael  of  the  sword, 
[1081 


THE  SOUL  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

And  I  shall  ride  on  his  right  side,  a  page 

beside  his  lord, 
And  men  shall  follow  like  swift  blades  to 

reap  a  sure  reward. 

Grant  that  I  answer  this  my  call ;  yea,  though 

the  end  may  be 
The  naked  shame,  the  biting  flame,  the  last, 

long  agony; 
I  would  go  singing  down  that  road  where 

faggots  wait  for  me. 

Mine  be  the  fire  about  my  feet,  the  smoke 

above  my  head; 
So  might  I  glow,  a  torch  to  show  the  path 

my  heroes  tread; 
''My  Captain,  oh,  my  Captain,  let  me  go  back!'' 

she  said. 


109 


THE  JILTED 

/^H,  she  held  her  head  high; 

^^    She  walked  the  fields  as  though 

She  trod  a  crimson  carpet 

That  bowing  slaves  held  low. 
Yet  once  her  feet  had  followed  his 

The  path  he  chose  to  go. 

Oh,  her  eyes  were  proud  ones, 

Jewel-bright  and  clear, 
Haughty  as  a  queen's  might  be 

When  poor  folk  come  too  near. 
Yet  once  they  laughed  back  joy  to  his 

And  melted  at  his  tear. 

Oh,  her  mouth  was  scornful — 

Not  a  smile  amiss ; 
Over-quick  to  mock,  perchance. 

At  another's  bliss, 
Yet  once  'twas  tender  with  his  name 

And  lifted  to  his  kiss. 
[110] 


THE  YEARS 

TTHE  Old  Year  looked  at  the  clock, 
-■■      Smiled  his  gallant  old  smile,  and  so 
Took  his  beaver,  arranged  his  stock, 

Kissed    her    hand — while    she    curtseyed 
low — 
(That  demure  coquette  of  a  world,) 
And  sighed  as  she  watched  him  go. 

The  Old  Year  closed  the  door; 

She  waited — half  mirth,  half  fear, 
Till  the  clock's  last  stroke  gave  o'er. 

And  over  the  casement  clear — 
(O,  demure  coquette  of  a  world !) 

Leaped  that  dashing  blade,  New  Year! 


Ill] 


THE  SEA  BRIDE 

OHE  was  like  no  other  one 
^    All  the  parish  round; 
In  her  soul  were  sea  and  sun, 

In  her  laugh  the  sound 
Of  swift  waves  on  shell-strewn  sands 

Never  man  hath  found. 

Father,  mother,  none  she  knew. 

On  the  beach  one  day 
All  amazed,  a  fisher  crew 

Found  a  child  at  play. 
Lithe  and  white  and  wild,  with  hair 

Gemmed  with  sun-dried  spray. 

So  they  taught  their  speech  to  her, 

So  she  grew  apace. 
In  her  voice  the  sea- winds  stir. 

Like  a  curved  wave's  grace 
Moved  her  slender  form,  the  sea's 

Beauty  seemed  her  face. 
[112] 


THE  SEA  BRIDE 

Not  a  lad  the  parish  round 
But  when  she  drew  nigh 

Flung  his  heart  upon  the  ground 
For  her  feet  to  try ; 

Not  a  lad  the  parish  round 
Gained  her  smile  thereby. 

Not  for  her  their  prayers  and  sighs. 

Long  day  after  day, 
From  sun  rising  to  moonrise, 

Still  her  feet  would  stray 
Where  the  wild  sea  beckoned  her 

In  its  combers  play. 

Only  one  who,  day  by  day, 

Followed  her  again ; 
One  with  eyes  of  stormy  grey, 

Passionate  with  pain 
Of  that  love  despised,  that  burned 

Hot  through  heart  and  brain. 

On  the  cliff  that  taunts  the  mad 

Waves  that  leap  to  it. 
So  they  met  there,  maid  and  lad, 

Oh,  a  trysting  fit ! 
Red  the  great  moon  rose — as  some 

Torch  the  furies  lit. 
8  [113] 


THE  SEA  BRIDE 

Still  she  mocked  him  fearlessly, 

Said  him  still  the  same, 
'None  I  love  but  this  my  sea," 

Till  the  madness  came — 
In  the  hungry  eyes  of  him 

Like  the  red  moon's  flame. 

'  In  your  lover's  arms  this  night 
Lie  you  then,"  quoth  he. 

Hand  of  brown  on  throat  of  white. 
Swiftly,  silently, 

Down  her  lithe  young  body  flashed, 
Down  into  the  sea. 

Know  you  what  he  saw  who  leant, 
Maddened  through  and  through? 

Sudden  waves  that  curved  and  bent 
As  strong  arms  might  do 

When  they  draw  the  bride  beloved 
To  a  heart  thrice  true. 

Know  you  what  he  heard,  who  so 
Crouched  there,  hate-possessed? 

Laughter  tremulous  and  low, 
E'en  that  laughter  blest 

Of  the  happy  bride  who  lies 
On  her  lover's  breast. 
[1141 


THE  SEA  BRIDE 

She  was  like  no  other  one 

All  the  parish  round ; 
In  her  soul  were  sea  and  sun, 

In  her  laugh  the  sound 
Of  swift  waves  on  shell-strewn  sands 

Never  man  hath  found. 


[115] 


I 


THE  WISHES 

T  was  on  Midsummer  Eve 

I  made  wishes  three, 
Since  the  fairies  gave  me  leave 
And  the  thing  might  be. 

And  the  first  wish  was  for  peace, 

And  the  next  for  rest, 
And  the  next — the  fear  might  cease 

That  possessed  my  breast. 

And  straightway  my  lover  turned 
That  these  things  might  be, 

Kissed  my  lips  with  lips  that  yearned, 
Laughed,  and  left  me  free. 

So  came  peace  and  so  came  rest ; 

Yea,  but  who  could  tell 
That  the  heart  within  my  breast 

Seemed  an  empty  shell, 
[116] 


THE  WISHES 

Void  of  all  unrest  and  fear? 

Oh,  but  this  is  true, 
I  would  bear  and  hold  them  dear 

For  that  love  I  knew. 

So  on  next  Midsummer  Eve 

I  shall  wish  again 
For  my  olden  right  to  grieve, 

And  my  ancient  pain. 

Better  these  than  that  I  lack, 
I  shall  wish  once  more, 

And  my  lover  will  come  back 
Laughing  through  the  door. 


[117] 


A  WEDDING  SONG 

CPRINGTIME  in  our  village! 
^  Between  a  dawn  and  night 
The  orchards  grey  but  yesterday 

Come  out  in  pink  and  white, 
Like  little  bridesmaids  all  bedecked 

To  give  the  bride  delight. 

Springtime  in  our  village ! 

Through  all  the  countryside 
From  bough  and  wing  the  robins  fling 

A  carol  glorified, 
Like  lusty  little  choristers 

Who  sing  before  the  bride. 

Springtime  in  our  village ! 

Before  the  sun  is  high 
The  little  crowds  of  fleecy  clouds 

Come  drifting  through  the  sky, 
Like  happy  children  all  in  white 

To  see  the  bride  go  by. 
[118] 


A  WEDDING  SONG 

Springtime  in  our  village ! 

Oh,  heart  of  mine,  be  gay! 
The  lass  that  frowned  the  season  round 

Hath  found  her  mirth  in  May, 
And  all  of  Spring  is  but  the  ring 

About  our  wedding  day. 


[119] 


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